


Misery You Deserve

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon Era, Caretaking, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've got the shits, sir," he concluded. </p><p>"You don't say."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misery You Deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ricochet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricochet/gifts).



> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> "Living in a field of waste spread dysentery through the platoon. The closest I came to willing my own death in Iraq was while curled up in the dust outside a plywood latrine, too weak to swat the jellybean-size flies clustered on my head." – _One Bullet Away_ , 352

"Well, sir, I guess you're mortal after all." 

Nate turned his head toward Brad's voice, but didn't open his eyes. It wasn't worth the effort, not when _everything_ hurt. The sun prickled along his skin, he could feel the clamminess of the sweat all over his body, but there was a core of ice underneath it all. Some part of him was grateful for that. 

That was Iraq for you: welcoming a second kind of suffering to offset the first.

Nate's silence became conspicuous, but Brad didn't say anything else. Not that he needed to. His silence communicated quite enough. It took only a moment for it to go from amused to concerned, just as the slight stirring by Nate's side gave away that Brad had moved close. 

That in itself said something, but the torment consuming Nate wouldn't let up enough for him to parse it. Half-formed thoughts floated through his mind – Brad would never give away his position unless he meant to. So, what? He was being considerate? – but they fell away again just as quickly. 

Nate's stomach pitched and rolled, a wave of cramps seizing him, stealing his focus. He sucked in a breath, the fine talcum of Iraq's sand a familiar taste by this point, and willed his body back under control. 

Because that had a shot in hell of working. 

So Nate just gritted his teeth and rode it out. Thankfully, the spasm passed without forcing a mad dash to the latrine, stinking up a ten-meter radius nearby. For now it was downwind, but Iraq would take care of that right quick. There was no end to misery here. 

Nate's eyes flew open as cool fingers pressed against his forehead. He looked up into blue eyes, concern shadowing them, an expression far too common these days. It reminded Nate what a poor job he'd done covering his despair. When had he lost the ability to police himself? Worse: what else could Brad read off of him?

Brad touched Nate lightly, like his mom used to do back in grade school when he was sick and hiding under a pile of covers. 

"You look nothing like my mom."

"How fortunate for her," Brad said, but it was distracted, almost automatic. He searched Nate's face, looking for something. 

Nate squinted up at him, trying to kick his brain back into gear. "What are you doing here?"

"Our orders are to do a grand total of fuck-all, because why would you use an elite aggressive force in a war zone, so instead I'm checking on you."

Nate could feel his mouth turn down at that. He wasn't one of Brad's charges.

"Go check on the others. I'm fine."

But Brad didn't move. He simply took his hand away and looked at Nate like he knew better. 

"Your current posture of sprawling in the dirt while flies crawl all over you implies otherwise, sir."

There were flies? Huh. That must be where the buzzing came from. Nate had thought it was just more ringing in his ears. 

Of course Brad read that off him. His jaw firmed. Shit. Nate had to intervene before this became an issue. 

"Just leave, Brad. I'll be fine." Nate meant to put steel into it, if not an order at least a strong suggestion from the LT…but then Nate's guts clenched. He groaned, hunching over himself as a wave of nausea and cramping swept through. It left him shaking, tasting bile at the back of his throat, agony wiping his mind clean. Nate felt the sting of tears at his eyes and forced them shut. Fuck this _forever_. 

Brad's fingers returned to his forehead, then moved to massage the back of his neck. Slowly, Nate relaxed as the pain subsided enough to collect his composure. And remind him of his surroundings. 

Right. They had been talking. 

No, Nate had been trying to get Brad to go away so he could die in peace. 

But one look put an end to the hope of private humiliation. The set of Brad's shoulders told Nate everything and his words only confirmed it: "Your situational awareness is for shit, sir. On every level." And Brad would never leave a man down. 

Dammit.

Knowing it was no use to argue, Nate just grimaced. "Thanks for the reminder."

A glimmer of humor finally peeked through all Brad's worry, as if Nate had said something momentous. Brad's voice turned almost indulgent: "I'm leaving now. Try not to eat your M9 before I get back."

***

Doc showed up with two bottles of water and made him drink both as he poked and prodded, Brad a shadowed presence behind him. He wasn't wearing his cover and his ears stuck out, almost fragile. 

Brad was never fragile. 

But even as he thought it, Nate called bullshit. Brad had soft spots, too…if you knew where to look. 

Done with his examination, Doc sat back on his heels, his bandana soaked through with sweat. Even amidst relative safety, he was in high demand. "You've got the shits, sir," he concluded. 

"You don't say."

Doc's gaze sharpened, the wind-up to some devastating barb…but then he stood down. Jesus, everyone was treating Nate like he had "Handle with Care" stamped on his ass. 

Instead, matter-of-fact: "Spitting on your hands to clean them is shit hygiene."

"Damn, and it was my first choice." Nate knew he was being a fucking petulant child, but he couldn't seem to do anything about it. 

Doc just shook his head and looked back up to Brad. "I don't babysit. Just keep him hydrated." He turned and left without another word. 

Brad nodded once, like he'd decided something in his own mind, and _fuck_. Nate knew that stubborn expression too well. 

He had to try, though. 

"If you're so desperate to relive your pre-teen babysitting years, go find Trombley."

"Trombley's busy wielding a shotgun, tasked with keeping the wild dogs at bay. Trombley is high on life right now and doesn't need me."

Nate stilled, the awful feeling of not knowing mixed in with what a _bad_ idea that was. "You can't be fucking serious."

Brad looked at him evenly. "What began with bridge recon…ended in shooting dogs. God bless the Marine Corps."

***

Nate's intestines betrayed him again, sending him staggering toward the latrine, not even caring about the sign of weakness. The only other option was literally shitting himself in front of Brad and that just…no.

After some quality time in the latrine, during which he did consider the blessed relief offered by the M9, Nate stepped outside to find Brad assembling some kind of lean-to made from ponchos and metal of indeterminate origin. Brad had to know that the shamals would chew through it in no time flat; nature would not be denied. 

"It won't hold." But still, Nate trudged over and collapsed underneath it, muscles shaking and weak. The shade it offered was paltry relief in the 115-degree heat, but maybe it'd keep him from getting even more sunburned.

Brad didn't seem at all concerned. "My time in Iraq has primarily been spent digging holes only to move position to dig more holes. I think I can put up a poncho a couple times."

He handed over another bottle of water, which Nate took, begrudgingly. It soothed the sting in his throat, even if his stomach still refused to settle. Being out of the sun…it wasn't much, but it was its own kind of reprieve. Just a little. Just enough. 

Brad took a breath, then paused. Nate watched the emotions flicker through his eyes as he hesitated, a rare sight for someone so self-assured. Huddled in the shadows of the lean-to, the moment felt almost private. Too much so. There should be nothing private between the LT and his top TL. 

Finally, Brad spoke: "You can let people help. This isn't a misery you deserve."

Nate wanted to look away from Brad at that, but he'd always been a masochist on some level; he always had to face things head-on. Even when it was Brad slicing him clean through.

Intellectually Nate knew that getting sick wasn't a punishment. That was the thinking of a bygone age. He knew it was all about sanitation and bacteria and their living conditions…but it didn't _feel_ that way. It felt like his body was finally matching the shitstorm in his brain. 

And a little part of him marveled at how clearly Brad saw that.

Nate studied him, wondering how to respond – with Brad's face no longer dirty, he could see the hollowed cheeks, the haunted eyes. Brad felt the wound of this as much as Nate did and here he was, offering absolution. Or at least denying punishment. 

Finally, Nate settled on all he could really say, insufficient though it was: "Thank you, Brad."

Brad held his gaze, nodding once. He didn't look away. The moment stretched, something heavy and open between them, a connection Nate didn't want to break…but that he _should_. He knew he should. 

He would. 

Finally, Brad cleared his throat, eyes moving off to do a sweep of the windswept plain, ostensibly checking for threats. With it, the moment snapped, like when you stretched and shot a rubber band; it was gone but the bright sting remained. 

Nate took the moment to breathe. This was…not good. 

And a traitorous little part of him wondered: was Brad giving Nate a moment…or was he taking time for himself?

His survey complete, their composure returned, Brad eventually looked back to Nate, warmth, even a hint of mischief creeping in. 

"So, sir, I have to ask," he said, goading, so fucking compelling it hurt sometimes, "how raw is your ass right now?"

Nate leveled a look at him, didn't even blink: "I don't kiss and tell."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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